


Bohemian Rhapsody

by frooit



Series: Bohemian Rhapsody [1]
Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Illustrated, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Short, depictions of cock, quasi-voyeurism, sleeping troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snafu gets inside his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bohemian Rhapsody

**Author's Note:**

> sledge pov  
> comes with an [illustration](http://pics.livejournal.com/frooit/pic/001ps73g) by Josefine

He's at it again.

You don't sleep very well, not even here at base camp. And most nights here this is your music, your lullaby. Well, not so much lullaby—that would imply soothing and this is anything but soothing. This is an over-played track. Rustling fabric slide, hitching, heavy gasps. Double-time breathing, progressive, wet rhythms. It never gets quiet here, let alone pitch black, and as people walk by and talk in the distance, Snafu's in here, beside himself. Anyone could wander in.

But that could be part of his thrill. Snafu's not exactly stable, decent, well-adjusted. He's pushing half sane.

Because it never does quite get dark, you could open your eyes and see him if you wanted. His cock in his fingers, his head pressed back, forehead knit. His teeth shiny white, tongue shiny slick, back extremely angled. That rough green blanket thrown over his knees, eyes screwed shut. Noise muffled but not lost. It's an image you can see without seeing. He's giving you all the details, all you need is to piece it together, stroke by stroke, inhale by exhale.

This may be better than blood red memories. Miles better than warm, squirming insides flopped out on your fingers, dribbling through the cracks. Could be some freshly butchered animal, but no, it's more like human. See the miles of small intestine, the failing liver, a loner kidney... Moments in time frozen forever, concrete strong, never coming loose. That fear, that dread, that death resolve. It all jumps out as you're nearly dropping off, drifting into sleep. Mostly you're stuck trying not to remember and trying not to forget. With all that to look forward to you couldn't sleep regardless. 

This gives you an extremely short fuse.

You've opened your eyes (had them open) and it takes you a moment to adjust to what you're seeing. There's dim light muted by the tarpaulin but there's also your imagination static, a mirror. All but one thing... His eyes are wide open, bulging, tears welling and ready to fall on a blink. And he's shirtless. Pair of dog tags lazing around his throat. Details missing, omitted, sterile to your thoughts. His skin is marred and marked, bruised and lacerated, sweat stark. It makes all the difference. Just one hand strains on his cock, the timed motion blurring and censoring most of himself from your view. Just a teasing suggestion, a glimpse here, a glimpse there.

That's more than enough, by all means.

You're staring and analyzing and growing uncomfortable, breaths coming shallow and sharp. The straight line of his jaw. The jut of his collarbone. The pull and stretch of his lips (tongue coming out, slither-quick, wetting). Those chesty, wounded sounds he's making. They're from deep inside, somewhere down below under all that hate and anger and his tired face. He shudders, squirms, eyelids fluttering. Those gathered tears, they stream.

You find you have no air.

You take a sharp inhale.

He lifts his head, inches, and spots you. His hand slows. Mouth agape (perpetually—all that smoking killing his respiration). It's hard to say what he feels first, his face twisting through a picture show of responses. Now worry, now guilt, now desire, now excitement, now enticement. It's a kaleidoscope, lewd and paralyzing. If this were anybody else, _anybody_ , you'd have reactively closed your eyes and feigned sleep.

"So ya like watchin'?"

His voice is syrup thick.

"Mamma not teach ya it's rude to stare?"

Your surprise (shame) makes you completely honest.

You're blurting it out.

"I can't sleep."

"I.. have a cure for that," he purrs.

Those inert eyes half-lidded. Fingers slipping, gripping; his lungs letting out a stuttered sigh, a stifled moan.

Your mouth goes dry.

"Time tested," he says.

"I just want to God damn sleep."

It's the best you have given the moment.

"Then fuck off an' roll over. Don't need the ideas."

"Ideas?"

"Roll over."

It comes out as _rolloveh_. One mashed word.

You blink.

He groans, rolls his head to the side.

"Ya know, G..."

This is a long suffering pause. Him exposed and still working his fingers. 

"Ya can't sleep 'cause you're still back _there_. You ain't dead. Get over it."

"Fuck you."

He stops his hand.

"Nah, have it the other way."

You take that cue to roll over, cutting him off.

"I don't know why I listen to your shit."

"'Cause it's not shit."

"Beg to differ."

"Why can't ya sleep then?"

" _You_."

It's not a complete lie, but now you're a single word away from snapping and flying out of your cot to silence him. All the blood would drain from his head and his dick, your fingers tight and unforgiving around his throat, crushing his esophagus, depleting oxygen to his brain, stamping him out, deriving your silence. His massive, blank eyes tearing up and bleeding water for new reasons. But you don't, you just set your jaw, grit your teeth. Let him drill into your head.

"How long it been since ya played the ol' piss pipe?"

He says it loud, pointed.

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"Now that's a lie..."

Gasp of hyper-warm air. Pressure in your gut and lower down still. Cold sweat shiver. You didn't hear the shift of his movement or the end of his self involvement but he's found the side of your cot, voice come from right next to your head, right at your ear. Like some disembodied conscience. 

"If you get any closer Merriel..."

He _tsks_.

"What? Gonna sock me?"

You lie still.

"Can't finish now," he adds.

He's just an exhale ghosting your nape, and a suggestion. Closer and closer still he gets, almost leaning over now, almost having to brace on the cot so as not to fall on you. You don't see them, but you don't have to, you can feel them. Those eyes, that stare. Empty, endless, like looking to the horizon. Like looking for something that's never there. So close now he's disrupting what little hair you have at the back of your neck with his nose, his lips, pushing on. Dog tags clinking. He's breathing in your smell, sliding over skin now, close enough to bite, taste.

Testing, goading. Antagonizing.

Blame it on not enough sleep, blame it on the situation. Blame it on closing up your mind, protecting it as much as you can, turning it off, saving it from this. _This_ , his breath, acrid, moist, and the (oh, how can you forget) war outside. You let him put a hand over your throat, under your jaw, so he can control you, bring you closer. Crooks your head back, to the right. Your eyes presently sealed because you're not there, you're distant, far away. He's dangerously close to your face, radiant heat. Dangerously close to gripping you too tight and adding new bruises to your catalogue.

This would be the time for realization to dawn and modesty or fear to get the best of you, but you're not so quick to respond, you're not so on point. Just trying not to part your lips for more air, trying not to give him a reason to focus on one thing more than the other, trying to blend in and fade out. Pulse thudding in your ears, fingers gripping at the ragtag blanket. You're just about a mess.

It's not his lips you find touching yours, it's a finger, and then two, the very tips of them (from the hand previously on your throat), tracing the line and following the curve and angle of your mouth. It's an effort not to open up and bite them. That mix of soap and smoke and a muskiness that you know is his, that you know is from where it counts.

You find that to be the final straw. Your mouth's opening, opting out.

" _Stop_."

He says, "Make me."

"I don't want to..." you respond.

You reopen your eyes, rejoin the world.

"I don't want to _have_ to..." you clarify, the tone of your voice so much like when you first came here, so much like when you first met him. Small, meek. He has nothing to say now. You choked him out with your words. He's just a naked stare, solid but cracking, lips omni-parted. He won't apologize. You don't want it anyway.

"We can't," you say.

It seems to sting him.

"You know what I mean."

And he does, but whether or not that helps your current situation is another thing. Those blue as blue fucking eyes, those red as red fucking lips, so close but just too damn far away. Might as well be dead and buried. Might as well be dead and forgotten. You read it on his face. He doesn't hide certain things very well. Not very well from you.

He leaves you where you are, head turned and watching him go.

It's just that much more quiet the rest of the night.


End file.
